Jerry
by RemyMcKwakker
Summary: A first-aid moment. No spoilers. Fluff. Yeah, you know it.


**Band-Aid**

Sam stared at his fingernails in disgust. "They. Just. Won't. Get. Clean!" he ground out, looking livid.

"Relax, Sammy," Dean said, lying on his bed with his arms crossed under his head. "It's just a little dirt."

Sam stared at his brother incredulously. "Dean, I _eat _with these hands. I don't want to get some bacterial infection simply because of dirt under my fingernails."

"You won't," Dean assured him confidently. "I never have."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered, resuming his work on his fingernails. Dean closed his eyes and wished for a gig that did _not _involve digging up six feet of earth.

A few minutes later he began thinking of hot women. Idly he wondered how hot _he'd_ be, if he was female. Very, he was sure. As in, drop-dead gorgeous.

"Shit!"

Sam's shout had Dean out of bed in less than a second. "What is it?" he asked loudly, looking around for an intruder.

"I cut myself," declared Sam, and Dean turned to look at him so fast he almost cricked his neck.

"What?"

Sam held up his bleeding thumb. His previously placid expression was now turning rapidly into the injured-puppy look.

That one always got to Dean even faster than the Puppy Eyes.

"Dammit, Sammy, what did you do?" Dean asked, trying to ignore the look and returning to his bed. "Try to clean your nails with a knife?"

At Sam's silence, Dean turned to stare at his brother again. "Really, Sam? _Really_?"

(At this point it would be prudent to mention that the Winchesters' knives were always in top condition. They were practically mini-katanas.)

"The dirt was bothering me," answered Sam in a small voice. When Dean did nothing more than continue his impersonation of a goldfish, Sam sighed. "Where's the first-aid kit?"

Dean jerked his thumb towards his bag without taking his eyes off Sam. It was starting to get a bit creepy.

"Dude, stop," Sam said, moving towards Dean's bag and keeping his injured hand close to his chest. "You look like you just saw a demon."

Dean glared at Sam. "For someone who went to college, you're pretty stupid."

"What would you have done?" retorted Sam, fishing through the first-aid kit for antiseptic.

"Well, I definitely wouldn't have used a knife," answered Dean. "And don't get blood all over my bag."

"It's just a cut," Sam replied, irritated. "It's not like I'm going through massive blood loss all over your bag."

And when Dean heard that tone of voice, he knew the cut hurt more than Sam was letting on. Stabbing yourself under the nail with a razor-sharp knife couldn't be very pleasant, he decided. Heart softening somewhat, he got off his bed and went over to Sam sitting at the small table. "Show me," he demanded.

Sam looked at him strangely. "Why?"

"Because I want to see it, college boy." Dean's face had _duh _written all over it.

Somewhat reluctantly, Sam held out his right hand in Dean's direction. After a minute or so's scrutiny, Dean said with a smirk, "Well, looks like you got the dirt out from under this one. Want me to try that with the rest of your fingernails?"

Sam jerked his hand away. "Bite me."

Dean reached forward and took it again (holding it firmly so Sam wouldn't pull it away again), and after another examination said, "Go wash it."

"Don't you think I already tried that?"

"No, not really," Dean answered. "Now go."

With a huff that sounded very much only half-hearted, Sam obeyed. He returned to find that Dean had laid out antiseptic and a Band-Aid on the table in front of him, and was looking expectantly at his little brother.

Sam sat down at the table and said, "What, you're actually going to fix it for me?"

Dean looked at Sam, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "You don't want me to? Fine." He made to get up but was stopped by Sam's good hand.

"I never said that," Sam said softly, and damn if Dean could say no to that expression. Hell, even John had never been able to resist it, and that being a hardened hunter. Dean didn't stand a chance.

So Dean sat back down and took Sam's hand for the third time that night. He carefully wiped the area under Sam's nail with the antiseptic swab, taking care to cause minimal pain. Then he wrapped the Band-Aid around it.

Sam brought his hand close to his face to examine his brother's work. After about thirty seconds, he said, "Jerry."

"What?" Dean was confused. Was this some weird Stanford-ish way of saying 'thank you'?

It wasn't, as it turned out. "Jerry," Sam repeated, holding up his thumb. "On the Band-Aid."

Dean squinted at the little brown mouse covering Sam's thankfully dirt-free nail. "Oh. Right."

Then, unable to help himself, he added drily, "You're welcome."

Sam flushed a little. "Oh. Sorry. Thanks," he muttered in quick succession.

Dean tried not to laugh at that. Waving his hand magnanimously, he said, "You are forgiven" in tones of utmost superiority.

Sam's face broke out into a grin, much to Dean's delight (of course, he prevented it from showing on his face). Then he said, "So where did we get these from, anyway?" To emphasize his point, he waggled his thumb in Dean's face.

Dean shrugged. "Don't really remember."

"Okay."

After a few minutes of contented silence, Dean cleared his throat and got up. _Chick-flick moment. Sammy, you total girl_. "I'm ordering pizza, you want some?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. And chili fries too."

Dean pulled a mock annoyed face. "You'll have bad breath for hours."

"I will not!" protested Sam, before realizing Dean was only joking. With a little smile he added, "Jerk."

Translation: _I love you_.

"Bitch," answered Dean at once, smirking at his baby brother.

_I love you too_.

**Free Winchester-shaped cookies to reviewers.  
**


End file.
